


Activated

by orchidbreezefc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asshole Kankri, M/M, POV Kankri Vantas, Purple Prose, So purple it started huntin wwhales, that was a tag and im glad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re offering,” you confirm slowly.</p><p>“I’m proposing a mutually beneficial course of action that may show some mercy on your poor teammates by making you marginally easier to handle.”</p><p>“You’re proposing a joint exploration of the practice of interspecies interrelations with me.”</p><p>“I’m offering to fuck you.”<br/>--<br/>Not smut, but still a hell of a ride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Activated

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I keep stashing these sorts of gems away only to find them later and fall in love with them. This one was supposed to be actually smutty, but what with that elusive hypersexual phase, I just couldn't write anyone touching Kankri sexually without wanting to puke. But I figured I could still fix it into something worthwhile, and I'm really glad I did.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like purple prose. I figured Kankri's would be as obnoxious as possible. Also, as an actual social justice blogger, I find Kankri a repulsive person and a bullshit character, but again, lots of things can be made into something worthwhile if you go at it from the right angle.
> 
> Now if only my actual PWPs had a leadup this good....

It’s just that this human’s so intimidating. It’s rather offensive, actually, and you dearly hope he hasn’t trapped any poor soul of weak constitution into conversation with him.

You had been quite polite, honestly, greeting him and formally introducing the idea of diplomatically laying out oppressive social constructs in both your societies which could lead to not only a second opinion on the struggles of your species’ respective minorities but also form an interesting compare-contrast that would illuminate the innate mechanisms of intelligent species that led to such imbalances in society--when he interrupted you.

There’s no formality about him at all, none of the dignity of a man who carries the burden of his society on his shoulders now. He’s alive, even, more than a sweep younger than you are biologically (more than a sweep older than your dancestors when you’d first met them). Maybe that’s why he’s so unbothered and nonchalant, head tipped to the side just so, hands in pockets you suspect replace god tier garments, hiding his wings behind him, one leg extended outward and weight on the other so he looks like a water fixture, continuously flowing downward. Impudent, you think, is the word for him. Offensive. Adolescent. You are quite sure that even at his age, you were never like this.

His voice is soft when he interrupts you, none of your hard-honed gift for public speaking, but he speaks with a confidence that is jarring. Upsetting. His countenance makes you stop and listen; his words make you regret it.

“Cool story, bro,” he says, shifting his fluid stance a precise degree, “but I don’t really give a fuck. I’m a post-societal man, see. Sure, I understand the interest from an anthropological, historical context, but your race is dead, man. Ain’t you got nothing better to do than fuss over whether Alternia was nice enough to fucking transyellowbloods?”

“Beforus,” you correct automatically; “transBUOYs!” Irritation rustles back and forth under your skin. “And the point of discussing such topics is that they hold a reflection of intrinsic values programmed into trolls by millions of years of--”

“Evopsych? Like, bigotry exists because it’s in our DNA?” the human says, wincing deliberately--the gesture is obscured by his ridiculous glasses. “Classy.”

“Take those off,” you say. “They”--make you hard to read, strip you of emotion, make you seem like the objective party--”offend my sensibilities.” Really, not even Cronus wore anything that garish during the times when he opted for fake glasses. The human’s eyebrows rise in confusion and you can see he doesn’t know what you mean and intends to make a stink about it, so you snatch the glasses from his face.

He’s not as angry as you expected; hoped, perhaps. He just seems surprised, blinking at you with bright orange irises floating in white sclera. It’s somehow both more and less alien than the ordinary yellow troll oculars of your living dancestors, given the blank white oculars you are used to. Alien. Suddenly you wonder what it would feel like to run your hands through keratin strands uninterrupted by horns, you wonder how easily his skin would break--you can see the orange tone through it, surely it would be so easy to just bite him and spill it--

You have no idea if humans have a bulge like yours.

You bite your lip a little and feel yourself start to perspire. Your gaze has been roaming in silence, and the human has caught you at it, appraising you for most of the duration of your pause as well, arms folded in a faux-casual calculation, a gesture of consideration. “You been ogling me pretty serious there,” he says, almost thoughtfully--you wonder if he wears those glasses because his brethren become unnerved when he stares at them like that. “Makes a man wonder if you’re planning to do anything about it.”

“I surely don’t know what you mean,” you reply in your most formal tone, a little stiff even, just to make the point. “I’m celibate, you know,” you clarify, and if the words come out a little hasty, so what?

“Celibate?” he asks, eyebrows shooting up. It’s amazing how filled-in oculars make such a difference in expression like that, even with the scorn. He does this complicated series of body movements that you think would be terribly expressive if you could interpret it properly: he looks down and shakes his head with a wry smile on his face while shifting his weight rather captivatingly from one leg to the other. “I think it’s more a case of you can’t get any.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” you say, finding your voice a bit heated.

“I mean, you’re good-looking enough,” he muses, “must be your shining personality. After an eternity with you I figure I’d sooner cut my dick off too--”

“I don’t know what lewd insinuation that was supposed to be, but I suggest you stop--”

“But I don’t got eternity with you, do I? I mean, if I could get you to stop spouting thinly-veiled bigoted bullshit for twelve seconds--”

“Shut the fuck up!”

He does, and blinks at you. For a moment you bask in the victory of wiping the smugness out of his aura, but then in slow horror you realize he seems to be merely intrigued.

“So you’re telling me right now you ain’t desperate?” he asks calculatedly. You feel a sinking feeling in your abdomen. Something like sinking.

“Desperate for what?”

“For someone to touch you.”

His voice is even, but there’s some spark in the way he’s looking at you. You feel inundated with implications you are finding it increasingly difficult to ignore.

“You’re offering,” you confirm slowly.

“I’m proposing a mutually beneficial course of action that may show some mercy on your poor teammates by making you marginally easier to handle.”

“You’re proposing a joint exploration of the practice of interspecies interrelations with me.”

“I’m offering to fuck you.”

Your hands go clammy at your sides. “Hmm,” you say, crossing them into the depths of your sweater so you can wipe off the sweat. You act like you're considering, the pretense necessary not because your mind is made up, but because your brain has gone too perfectly blank to _actually_ consider.

You’re rather certain the human sees directly through you. One eyebrow tilts high like the arch of a castle door, as carefully-arranged as it is artful. Your breath is failing you. You think it’s not outside the realm of possibility that you are having a panic attack, but it’s impossible to tell that apart from the rest of the excitement the human is forcing your body to undergo.

He knows he’s unsettled you now. He’s got you off balance, and he smirks, his lips forming a curve that you don’t want to think of as enticing but is, you can at least say, definitely designed to let you know he knows every thought in your mind, every reaction of your perfidious body.

The human starts sauntering forward, closing the space between you, still wearing that accursedly smug expression. “Now, on the off-chance your discourse includes anything marginally fucking important like, say, consent, I’m not going to try anything here just yet. Just…” He leans in, intoxicatingly close, and crooks his thumbs against the surface of your pants. You are lost in his orange gaze, running your speech tentacle over your lips, even as his oculars flick down—

He frowns.

You huff your breath in what’s supposed to communicate an interrogative, but you have no idea if it communicates anything at all but how, fine, how _acutely fucking horny_ you are right now. The human is staring at your crotch, which makes you wonder if it is possible to have a brain injury from your head spinning with so much lust.

With careful fingers--long, delicate, exquisite fingers—he lifts your sweater a fraction. You’d swear on your life you can distantly hear the vile song of the horrorterrors serenading this moment. It’s abominable to you that this act of pure celestial divinity would be forsaken due to something as simple and absurdly self-imposed as celibacy. He continues lifting your sweater, inch by inch, it’s so slow but you’re dazed clean out of the capacity for speech so you just tolerate the torturous pace.

“Holy shit,” the human mutters after you don’t know how long; you have the vague inkling that he’s purposefully being slow to give you time to object if you wanted, he did mention consent—stupid fucking consent, who fucking cares, he should just fucking _touch you_ —

“Holy _shit_ ,” he repeats, and you finally rend your gaze away from his hands, looking up into his face. His eyebrows are rising with his hands, straight up to his hairline. He looks utterly shocked and then—gleeful?

“What?” you demand, shaking all over with frenzied need, and he lifts your sweater up to your chin and points at the hem of your pants, encircling your torso just under your armpits.

Oh.

He’s laughing now, not a grin and a smug huff of air like you might have anticipated, but actual laughter, something between a guffaw and—no—now it’s escalating into outright howls. “Wait!” you exclaim, trying to get things back on track, shrugging off your sweater—but he just takes one look at you and doubles over, absolutely roaring with laughter. His frame shakes with the force of it. 

“Wait,” you insist, practically beg, really, and he holds up a hand, waving you off.

“Lord,” he half-wheezes. “Good fucking god. I’m never going to even think about fucking anyone ever again. I’ll just remember this, and—“ He glances at you again and snorts so hard it sounds almost painful, sets about laughing again and wiping his eyes clear of mirthful tears.

You are, as is unprecedented in your life, speechless. You say and do nothing, clutching your sweater impotently. He snatches his glasses back from your grip and goes off on his way, still cackling at your expense, off into the hazy undefined dream bubbled distance. All you can do is watch in bewildered misery. 

You will have to talk to Porrim about celibacy. And fashion.


End file.
